Shadow on the Crown (34 page)

Now, in Forkbeard, the ealdormen and the king faced a formidable foe, although they did not yet know the extent of their peril. Athelstan doubted that they could win a confrontation against the Danish king, and it was all too likely that one or more of these men was supporting Forkbeard in secret. Did his father suspect that?

Of course he did. His father suspected everyone.

After a series of interminable prayers, the messenger from Dorchester stood before them and relayed his news. It was precious little. The city had been attacked and set afire. The raiders had struck at night, and the messenger himself had no knowledge of who led them nor how many of them there might be. That announcement was followed by a debate over whether the shipmen would march inland from Dorchester or return to their vessels and strike farther along the coast.

Athelstan signaled for his cup to be refilled.

The next debate was over the size of the force that should be raised. After that they addressed the issue of leadership, and after that they wrangled over which shires would contribute men and arms to the land force.

Three hours later, Athelstan had emptied five cups of mead and the council had come to a momentous decision: They would decide nothing tonight. The king proclaimed that there would be time enough for them to consider what actions to take once the raiders had made their next move.

Athelstan, too, came to a decision. He decided that he was drunk, and that he liked it. It provided an excuse to wave off the questions of his brothers and avoid Ælfhelm. Ignoring everyone, he stumbled vaguely toward his chamber. When at last he found it he threw himself, fully dressed, upon his bed.

He slept fitfully, troubled by dreams of Emma standing amidst shattered, flame-scorched city walls.

While the king’s council met in the hall, Emma and her household shared a quiet repast in the women’s quarters. The gloom that the travelers had carried with them from the south seemed to descend upon the chamber like a black fog, and there was none of the usual bustle that came with unpacking after a long journey. Indeed, Emma thought, glancing about her, there was little to unpack. Jewelry, gowns, furnishings—all had been left behind. And that was the least of it. Her heart lurched as she thought of the men who had died at the hands of Swein’s shipmen, and of so many others who were missing.

They could not all be dead, she told herself. Some of them must have escaped, must have hidden or found some way to barter for their lives.

She beckoned to one of the kitchen servants who she hoped might have news.

“Has there been any word from Exeter, Ebba?” she asked.

Ebba, her broad, red face aglow with self-importance at being so addressed, said eagerly, “Oh, aye, my lady! The whole of Exeter is burned, and all the folk in it are dead. Dorchester is burned as well, and it is only by God’s grace that we’ll escape being murdered in our beds. The friar who preaches outside the Old Minster has said that the Northmen will kill us all, that it is God’s—”

Emma raised a hand to stop her, cursing herself, because the woman’s ranting would do more harm than good. “Who told you that Dorchester was burned?” she asked.

“A messenger came from the south tonight with news for the king. He stopped in the kitchens for a bite and some ale, and he said that Dorchester was afire.”

Emma frowned. So, Swein Forkbeard had struck two towns now, both of them with stout, heavily defended walls. He must have a large host, then. Would he be bold enough to attempt to capture Winchester? She feared that he might, and looking about the chamber, she realized that she was not alone in her fear. She could see the wine goblet trembling in Wymarc’s hand, and even Margot looked deathly pale.

“We must not despair,” she said. She was frightened, too, but she did not believe that Winchester could be destroyed. It was unimaginable. “Doubtless the king will lead a force against his enemies soon, and drive them back to their ships.”

And what of her, then? What if the king should send her away for safekeeping—to join his children at Headington, perhaps?

She folded her hands beneath her breasts, where even now a child might be quickening. Her dilemma was minor compared to the enormity of the threat from the Danish army, but she must determine how to deal with it. It had been a week since she lay with Athelstan, and she had only a little window of time now to make sure that, if she did bear a child nine months hence, it would be recognized as Æthelred’s. She must find her way to the king’s bed, and soon.

Which of his favorites, she wondered, was sleeping with him now? And how was she to displace her? Æthelred would think it strange if she showed a sudden ardor for his embraces, so she would have to be patient. There was time yet. He had said that he would speak with her on the morrow. When she saw him she must be obedient and compliant. She must offer him comfort and respite from the troubles that beset him. She must welcome him to her bed.

And could she imagine that he was someone else?

Her courage faltered at that. The father was not the son, and never would be. Yet what else could she do? She must be a wife to the man that she had wed—and never forget that he was the king and held her fate in his hands.

For the next few hours the talk swirled among the women like the water in a stream, touching lightly on topics as if they were stones, then flowing onward to something else. Emma noticed that Wymarc alone did not join in the conversation but remained wrapped in a grief that she bore in silence. There was nothing that anyone could do or say to help her, and Emma feared that Hugh’s loss—for she was certain that he was either dead or a prisoner of the Danes—would weigh heavily upon Wymarc for many long months to come. She grieved for her friend, and wondered again if there was a place in this world for love.

It was very late when Hilde returned, followed by Lord Ælfhelm. Emma had sent all her women to their beds, and now, alone with Elgiva’s father, she contemplated the man before her.

He was not an easy man to deal with, or even to look at, this Ælfhelm. His face was seamed and scarred, with large, irregular features—the kind of face that frightened small children. His wild black mane of hair hung to near his shoulders, and his thick beard was shot through with streaks of white. It had always astonished her that such a man could have sired three such beautiful creatures as Elgiva and her brothers.

He was built like a bear, and he had a belligerent manner, cowering to no one, not even the king. Indeed, she had seen him look upon Æthelred more than once with an expression of subtle contempt—something she suspected her husband suffered because he had no other choice. Rich in land and silver, Ælfhelm was the most powerful of the king’s ealdormen, and the kind of man who could instill fear with just a glance.

He was looking at her now with hooded eyes. She clutched her hands together, anguished by the pain she was about to inflict.

“My lord Ælfhelm,” she said, “I must be the bearer of ill tidings tonight. It grieves me to tell you that your daughter was within Exeter’s fortress when the city was attacked. Groa was with her, and I continue to hope and pray that they were able to escape, but I do not know their fate.”

She looked on him with pity, steeling herself to cope with his grief, yet, to her bewilderment, it did not come. His face, as hard as granite, showed no horror, no sorrow, not even surprise. It was like a blank wall, and she could not read it at all. Could a man, even one as unfeeling as this, be so stoic? Did he care nothing for his daughter?

“You should turn your prayers to better purpose, lady,” he said, his voice dull and flat, “for my daughter is well enough.”

Emma gazed upon him now with wonder and with sudden hope. If Elgiva had escaped the sack of Exeter, perhaps she had brought others with her.

“She is safe then? She is unharmed?”

“Oh, aye. The shipmen did not rape her, and for that I suppose I must be grateful. Never mind that for near a year she was the king’s whore,” he snarled, “when she should have been under your protection.” He must have seen her start of surprise, because he raised an eyebrow. “Did you think I did not know? And after the king wiped his hands of her, did you think I would entrust her to your care again without taking measures to ensure her safety? I am not such a fool, lady. My men shadowed you all the way to Exeter, and my son kept watch there to protect his sister against any threats. When the beacons were lit, Wulf spirited her away, while you, I am told, were safe outside the city.” His eyes glittered, cold and hostile, but his face remained expressionless. “Would you hear Groa’s fate? She died under the blade of a Danish battle-ax.” He bared his teeth, but it was not a smile. “Is there anything else you wish to know? Lady?”

Emma merely stared at him, assaulted by his words and too stricken to attempt a response. When she remained silent, he bowed and turned away. She watched him stalk from the chamber, her mind reeling from the force of his loathing.

How he must hate her. She had ever known that Elgiva was her enemy. Now she realized—and she should have known it long before this—that Ælfhelm, too, was her foe. And he was far more dangerous than any of his children.

Chapter Thirty-three

August 1003

Winchester, Hampshire

T
here was no dawn the next morning. Heavy black clouds blanketed the sky, and a drenching rain turned the palace grounds and all the streets of Winchester to thick, flowing mud. Æthelred, his black-robed queen at his side, led a procession of ealdormen and clergy, of noblemen, their wives, and as many townsfolk as could walk or hobble, in a solemn procession from the palace steps and down the dripping, tree-lined path that led to the Old Minster. Inside this, the largest church in England, beneath the massive golden shrine of St. Swithin, Bishop Alfheah led them in prayers of supplication.

Æthelred gazed in despair at the magnificent, gem-studded, gold-and-silver reliquary that his father had commissioned to honor St. Swithin. King Edgar the Peaceful, his father had been named. He had honored God and the Church, and his reign had been marked by peace and prosperity instead of the constant threat of fire and sword.

Æthelred had tried to follow his father’s example, had granted land and income to the bishops of Christ’s church and appointed able men to positions of ecclesiastical power. He had even erected the high stone tower that housed the sixteen bells now tolling in mourning for his wretched people. But God had rejected all his efforts and would not listen to his pleas. His sin was too great, his brother’s voice beyond the grave too strident.

All about him the cloying scent of incense mingled with the sobs and wails of the congregation as they prayed for God’s mercy. Æthelred, his face cradled in his hands, strove to empty his mind and heart of all despair. Surely such an outpouring of prayer and grief as this around him, such a thundering upon the gates of heaven from so many voices, would reach the ears of the Almighty.

He begged for forgiveness while the Latin chanting of the clergy rose and fell like the tides of the sea.
Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur Nomen Tuum.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name
.

He imagined his own father, seated at the side of the Lord in a blissful heaven, raising his hands to quell the storm that threatened his son’s kingdom. Was this not a vision? Was it not a sign of God’s forgiveness? In the comforting words of the Pater Noster he heard a promise that all would yet be well, and as Æthelred joined in the swelling music of the prayer, he was lifted at last out of his fear and bitterness. His heart grew lighter, for if God forgave him, what had he to fear from Danish raiders or blood-soaked phantoms in the night?

When the service ended, a messenger, soaking wet and filthy with mud, was waiting for him in the minster’s west porch. Æthelred regarded him with misgiving. The wretch could not have brought him ill tidings, for he had prayed. They had all prayed.

“Well?” he asked.

“The Viking army is coming this way, my lord, three thousand men strong and led by the Danish king.”

The solemn mood of the morning was shattered as if by a lightning stroke. A physical shudder of movement and sound rippled through the crowd behind the king and, impatient for more information, Æthelred raised his hand for silence.

“Have they crossed the Stour?” he demanded.

“Yes, my lord. Early this morning.”

That meant that in four days’ time Swein’s army would be at the city’s gates. He dismissed the messenger and, as the congregation behind him dissolved into panic, he made for the palace. He must rely on himself now, for God had abandoned him utterly.

Immediately he summoned his counselors to his private chamber. He called for maps, and with his nobles grouped around him at the trestle table, he studied the parchments set before him. With his index finger he searched for Dorchester, but the news of Forkbeard’s advance had seared his mind like white-hot steel, and he could not focus his thoughts upon his task. The calm that had descended upon him in the church had deserted him, replaced by a growing sense of doom.

“Forkbeard’s army,” he said, “will reach the gates of our city in a matter of days unless we find a way to stop it.” Even now he found it hard to believe that such a monstrous calamity could be about to engulf them.

“Offer them enough gold,” Ealdorman Leofwine muttered, “and they will skulk back to their ships soon enough.” He folded his arms across his chest, as if he considered the matter settled.

Æthelred scowled.

“Think you that they have not already taken gold and silver from the ruins of Exeter and Dorchester? Nay, they want more than our treasure. They want to fall upon us like ravening wolves and swallow us alive. They would destroy everything of beauty and of value in this land. In Exeter they left not one stone standing upon another. If we do not stop them, Winchester will suffer the same fate.”

They stared at him, denial in their eyes. They still did not perceive their peril.

“My father is right.” It was Athelstan who spoke, and Æthelred regarded him with surprise, for that phrase was not one his son was wont to use. “Forkbeard seeks vengeance for the murder of his sister and her family. Already he has speared his army deep into Dorset, farther than ever before. We must bring together a force that will match the Danes’ and engage them before they can make it to our gates.”

At this there was a clamor of voices, but Æthelred ceased to listen. The golden circlet upon his head had grown heavy and leaden, and now his temples throbbed with a piercing pain. Beneath the pain lay the chill finger of dread that bespoke the silent, looming wraith of his brother.

He could not see Edward, but he could feel him watching from the shadows with fierce, triumphant eyes. Was it the fetid scent of fear that brought him here? Surely the terror of death had been the last emotion that Edward had known upon this earth. Did his shade long to smell it now upon his brother’s still-living body?

He tensed his shoulders against the pain that forked from his head to his neck, borne, he was certain, on Edward’s baleful gaze. The words that he had read months before on a scrap of parchment surfaced in his mind to plague him again with their message of doom.

And now thou art cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood.

Who had written those words? Was he here, a member of his council, perhaps even one of his sons? How many of these men, he wondered, resting his gaze hopelessly on one face after another, would throw their bodies in front of a sword to protect him? Which of them would even feel sorrow if he should die? Ælfric, perhaps, he thought, glancing at his father’s old friend. As for the rest of them, if they should see him cut down he had little doubt that they would quickly rally to Swein’s side.

Today his nobles would demand that he lead them against Swein. But he would not place his life in their hands.

He could trust none of them.

When the rain had been swept away and replaced by a golden afternoon, Emma sought the haven of her garden. She had spent much of that morning directing the servants in sorting through the myriad items that had to be packed up and readied for removal in the event that the Danes attacked the city. Silver candlesticks, golden plates and chalices, jewelry, glittering hair ornaments, gem-studded gowns and robes, fur cloaks, beautifully illustrated manuscripts—all the trappings of royalty had to be itemized and packed away.

She had been glad to have something to distract her from thoughts of what must be occurring in the king’s chamber—the council session to which she had not been invited. Indeed, she had had no discourse at all with the king, in spite of his promise that he would meet with her this morning. The news from the south had disrupted everything, and she wondered if normal life would ever return. Her need to speak with Æthelred, to lay the foundations for drawing him into her bed, nagged at her, setting her already frayed nerves even more on edge.

This morning at the minster she had read the terror in her husband’s eyes when he learned that his greatest enemy was loose in the land. She guessed that Æthelred’s fear of Forkbeard could not be any greater even if the Danish king sprouted horns and a tail, and she mistrusted her husband’s thinking when he was frightened. It was fear that had led him to the ill-considered and ignominious massacre of St. Brice’s Day. Now that events were spiraling out of Æthelred’s control, she dreaded what his response would be. He was not likely to think things through, and he could not be expected to listen to advice from anyone, least of all from her.

She was brooding upon these thoughts when she saw Athelstan enter through the gate and make his way toward her. He took her hand in his to kiss her ring, and she made a conscious effort not to cling to his fingers for even the briefest moment. She was the one who had set the boundaries between them—she could not cross them, no matter how much she longed to do so.

“What has been decided?” she asked.

He told her, briefly, of Æthelred’s battle plan.

“You were right about my father’s fear,” he said. “He is mad with it, I think. He trusts no one, not even his ealdormen, except for Ælfric. I think he is afraid that if he allows anyone else to lead an army they are likely to join forces with Forkbeard instead of fight against him. The king’s entire defense hinges on whatever troops Ælfric can muster from Hampshire and Wiltshire in a matter of days.”

“Has he cause for such fear of his nobles?”

He looked at her squarely, his strong, dark brows set in a scowl.

“Of course he does. My father’s ealdormen do not trust him any more than he trusts them. But, dear God, if Ælfric should meet the Danes and lose—”

“But Ælfric is a good leader,” she protested, “and loyal to your father.”

He swept her words aside with an impatient gesture. “It is not his loyalty that worries me. Ælfric will have to face a Danish shield wall of three thousand seasoned warriors, while our army will be made up mostly of farmers and householders with little training in battle and God knows what in the way of armor and weapons. How will they be able to withstand the Danes? There is likely to be a slaughter, and all because we have not prepared to face so large an enemy host. My father insists on holding his hearth troops, men who can truly fight, in reserve here in Winchester, as a last measure of defense. He is wrong. It would be better to throw as many experienced, well-armed men as we can against the Danes in the first attack rather than divide our forces this way. It would be best of all if the king should lead the army, or at the very least ride at Ælfric’s side. The presence of the king would stiffen the resolve of our warriors.”

“Have you told him any of this?” she asked.

“He will not listen to me! I have offered to add my hearth troops to Ælfric’s force, but the king will not allow even that. My brother Ecbert goes with Ælfric. I am bid to stay behind and arrange for the city’s defense, to make up for the debacle at Exeter.”

She knew how he must chafe at that. It was bad enough that the sack of Exeter had been laid at his feet, but now he must watch his brother ride off to battle while he stayed behind. Yet she was glad that he would remain. If the worst should befall them, she wanted him near.

“If your father has put you in charge of our defense,” she said stoutly, “then he has done at least one thing right.”

“You are wrong,” he said, looking utterly defeated already. “There is nothing that feels right about this. Emma, listen to me.” He took her hand in his. “You must leave the city now, for only God knows what may happen in a few days’ time. Go to London and prepare a ship, so that if the Danes should have the victory, you can seek refuge at your brother’s court in Normandy. There is no reason why you should stay here.”

She read the urgent plea in his eyes, but before she could even frame a response, she saw that the king’s steward, Hubert, had entered the garden and was hurrying toward them. She stiffened and pulled her hand from Athelstan’s grasp, but she could not tell what the steward had seen. Hubert, whose long, pointed nose always made her think of a rat or a weasel, addressed Athelstan.

“My lord,” he said, “the king requires your presence in his chamber.”

The smooth face beneath the fringe of brown hair gave no indication that he had noticed anything amiss between the queen and the king’s son.

“I will come directly,” Athelstan said, and then turned to Emma. “Think on what I have said, my lady. Act upon it, I beg you.”

When he was gone his plea echoed in her ears.

Leave. Seek refuge in Normandy.

He was not the first who had urged her to run. Ælfric’s son, the blinded, bitter Ælfgar, had said much the same thing.

She could imagine what lay ahead. The savagery that had taken place in the lane near Magdalene Abbey would be as nothing compared to the carnage to come.

She covered her mouth with hands that trembled as she thought of Groa, and of all the others who lay dead in the rubble of Exeter and Dorchester—walled cities that had not been able to withstand the Danish onslaught. Why should Winchester be any different?

She was afraid of what was to come. Dear God, she wanted to flee, to take ship across the Narrow Sea, driven by her fear and by the fury of the Danish king. But she knew what kind of welcome she would receive in Normandy. Her mother, who had chosen her for this role of queen, would despise her for her weakness.